


Your Innocence is Mine

by TheStarlingsRedstart



Series: His Lordship Requests [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 18th Century, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, F/M, Library Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, This was supposed to be PWP, alcohol mention, and then bits of Plot happened at the end, especially about class difference, gratuitous descriptions of historically accurate attire, gratuitous references to domestic labour, too much internal monologue, you may laugh but I stopped reading smut once because the underwear was Wrong and it was distracting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27881625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheStarlingsRedstart/pseuds/TheStarlingsRedstart
Summary: "And what makes you think that you would be able to get away with that" -  here we go, she thinks, goodbye, stable, respectable future, goodbye reasonably good marriage prospects, hello country roads and city streets and not knowing where your next meal will come from - "without making up for it?"Wait, what?What can I say, it's PWP except for a smattering of plot at the end. Heed the tags.
Relationships: Unnamed Maid OC/Unnamed Lordling OC
Series: His Lordship Requests [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173704
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Your Innocence is Mine

**He** It is late at night by the time he finally leaves the drawing room for his bedroom, the guests all escorted off to the other wing. The moon is nearly full and his night vision decent enough, so he doesn't bother taking a candle with him. All of which is to say, the light flickering out from under the library door is very obvious.

**She** She is at the top of the ladder, frowning at the books, really wishing they were better - or at all - organised, but she hasn't been able to come up with a reason why it should be done, without any order from his lordship. The second volume has to be somewhere here, she knows she's seen it around before.

She hears the doorknob turn, and freezes.

The library's not big enough to have rows of shelves towering in its centre, so she is plainly visible up in her corner, illuminated by the candle she left on the table, a safe distance away from the books.

"What are you doing?" There is a cold precision to the lordling's voice.

She swallows, her grip on the ladder tightening. "Cleaning?" There is neither rag nor broom nor bucket in sight, and the grate won't need to be emptied before tomorrow morning, but what does a lordling know of housework?

He scoffs. "Stealing, more likely. Tell me, was it at least something of actual value?"

Her entire body goes cold. Getting accused of theft is likely to mean that not only will she lose her position, but will be sent off with no reference, making it practically impossible to find respectable employment elsewhere.

She begins to protest her innocence, how she'd only wanted to take a look, she would never- but he cuts her off mid-sentence. "Why don't you come down here so we can talk properly."

Her legs are shaking during the climb down. Arrived in front of him, she automatically drops into a curtsey, though perhaps not the most elegant one she’s ever managed. "Sir."

She is staring at his shoes, black, one toe slightly scuffed, William will have to take care of that in the morning.

"Look at me." His voice interrupts her racing thoughts, and she raises her gaze, hesitantly.

"So you are telling me that a _chambermaid_ " - the word is dripping with sarcastic disbelief - "is borrowing books from her lord and master's library, purely for the sake of her own erudition, and carefully returning them afterwards, and not stealing them and selling them off to pay for her excessive fondness for ribbons or something?"

There is not a single ribbon about her person, but she somehow suspects that pointing that out isn't going to help.

"Yes, Sir", she answers simply.

"And what makes you think that you would be able to get away with that" - here we go, she thinks, goodbye, stable, respectable future, goodbye reasonably good marriage prospects, hello country roads and city streets and not knowing where your next meal will come from - "without making up for it?"

Wait, what?

She suddenly realises that he's been moving closer to her and she's been backing away, and that she's now trapped between the shelves behind and the lordling before her. His gaze is on her, burning, and she can feel her breasts pushing against the front of her stays as her breath accelerates.

**He** She is practically squirming before him, wide eyes darting around like an animal looking for escape and finding none. He's got half a mind to pin her wrists to the bookcase, grip them so hard they are sure to bruise tomorrow, bite that spot on her neck where her rapid pulse is beating visibly. But no, he's going to draw this out a little longer.

“Getting access to these books seems quite important to you, hm? Why else risk your employer's anger? Tell me,” and here he pauses for a moment to appreciate the fear in her wide, dark eyes, “what would you do to retain not only your position here, but access to these books?”

**She** Books. She can keep her position, and she can keep reading. It's not a question, not really. "Anything."

He raises one eyebrow. Of course that’s a thing he is able to do.

"Anything, really?"

"Whatever you'll have of me, Sir."

It's a dangerous answer to give, she knows that. But how much does she have to lose, at this point, how much to gain? And part of her is almost morbidly curious.

He lets out a dark chuckle, mutters, more to himself than to her, "Whatever I'll have of you... we'll see about that in time."

**He** It'll be no good to take her all the way tonight, not while she's still shy and skittish as a yearling, but that doesn't mean he can't have his fun. He encompasses the room, its shelve-lined walls, with a swooping gesture. "So what are you going to do, now that I've given you proper access to this wealth of knowledge?"

She turns around to the books and starts talking, and as she does, he bends down, begins to mouth his way along her neck. When he brushes her (surprisingly soft) skin with his teeth, she lets out a gasp, and he can feel her rigid body slacken, sinking against him.

**She** His mouth is hot on her skin, and oh, he's found that sensitive spot just behind her ear, oh fuck, she can feel herself practically melting into him and she does not care at all, the fear gone from her body but the heightened sensations remaining, he bites her again and it sends a shudder through her, she presses back against him, can feel his arousal through her skirts, the gilt spines of the books swimming before her.

**He** She is deliciously responsive, and he's enjoying every second of it, how every new touch, lick and bite results in a gasp from her, a shudder, a sigh, it can't be long before she'll be moaning openly, others who might hear her be damned.

He runs his hands along her waist and up, pulls her kerchief out, revealing her shoulders, the swell of her breasts. He doesn't touch them, not yet, just enjoys how their rise and fall becomes faster as he kisses and nips and nuzzles and bites his way along her shoulders, across the back of her neck.

He digs his teeth in at the centre, just above her jacket, a claiming bite almost, and she arches her spine and lets out a small yelp before catching herself.

His mouth still close to her ear, he guides her over to the desk by the fireplace, there's a good girl he tells her, she falls into step and they're almost dancing, until she's trapped between him and the desk

**She** Oh God, oh _fuck_ , what is she doing, this is her master's library and her master's son and she's about to get bent over a desk she has wiped down more times than she can count but never sat down at and this would all be a terrible idea if it weren't for the fact that she would lose her position otherwise, she just hopes he's not going to risk getting her pregnant and oh, fuck the hardwood edge is digging into her hips as he's impatiently grinding up against her from behind and she snaps back, feels the heat pooling in her lower abdomen and what the hell, the consequences are inevitable so she might as well worry about them later.

She unpins the upper half of her jacket and partially unlaces her stays.

**He** He sees her free her breasts and reaches around to stroke them with one hand, pulls her skirts up with the other. Her ass is pleasingly firm, yet full. Her skirts hoisted up around her waist, he pushes her down onto the desk, continuing to whisper to her what a good girl she is being for him, she's doing so well, what a lovely, exquisite thing she is. He can feel her practically melting further with every word, becoming soft and malleable, ready for him to form into whatever shape he chooses.

**She** He's murmuring softly into her ear, his breath hot on her skin, his voice low and brimming with arousal, she can't even make out all the words because the sensation of it all is liquefying her, thoughts dissolving before they're fully formed and the heat between her legs only highlighting the feeling of emptiness. she bucks up against him without meaning to, which is greeted with a sound of bemused satisfaction.

**He** He can sense that something's shifted in her. Her skittishness is gone, she is no longer tightly wound with fear and anticipation, but instead desperate. He's not sure what has brought about this change, and half regrets that she no longer tenses up under his touch, but this unrestrained, almost animalistic need is certainly intriguing.

He undoes his breeches, frees his cock, palms himself for a few moments, then grinds up against her ass once, and stills.

She is still pressed up against his torso, and he can feel her trying not to squirm.

"Ask for it", he whispers.

 **She** His words extract a pathetic whine from her. She catches herself abruptly, goes silent, draws a shaky breath.

"Please, Sir."

"Please what?"

"Please -" the words get stuck in her throat.

"Please what?" His voice is icy.

She swallows. "Please fuck me. Sir."

 **He** Her words send a jolt through him. He fingers her cunt, briefly, by Jove she's so wet she's practically dripping. He pushes inside her, as deep as he can, and she lets out a long, loud moan.

He clamps a hand over her mouth. "Quiet."

**She** One moment he's got her fingers inside her and the next they're replaced by his cock and he's thrusting into her, deep and even and fuck, it feels so good to be filled, she's been wanting this so badly.

She angles her hips upwards to allow him to push into her as deeply as possible, and moans against his palm.

**He** She's wet and hot and tight all at once, and she's squirming underneath him in a way that's driving him wild. She moans again and he delivers a brutal thrust, hisses into her ear: "I told you to be quiet, understood?" and she nods. He grabs both her thighs, hoists them up around his waist, fucking her deeply, thoroughly, there's a hard edge to it now that wasn't there before

**She** She's impaled on his cock, every thrust sending a wave through her that is almost equal parts pain and pleasure and washes away any attempt at forming a coherent thought. She's got her arms before her, biting down on them to keep from crying out, her teeth leaving deep groves, marks of what she's been – being made into

**He** He can feel himself getting close, and firmly decides that it's not worth the risk. A last deep, languorous thrust and then he pulls out, draws her up against his chest, and tells her: "On your knees, little girl."

**She** She's half regretful, half relieved, and trying to show neither. At his words, she turns around and looks directly at him. "I've got a better idea."

She hoists herself up on the desk, turns around and lays down, her head hanging off the edge, mouth open. She runs her tongue over her lips, looks up at him.

**He** Her forthrightness, while unexpected, is not unwelcome to him. Very well – if she acts like a whore, he shall treat her accordingly.

Without warning, he grabs her head and pushes all the way down into her throat.

**She** Blindly, she gropes for his hips, keeping her throat carefully relaxed as he pounds down her throat. He starts slowly, then becomes faster and faster, she's struggling to keep her breath even and then he grabs her head from both sides, pushes all the way in, and stays there.

Tears are prickling in the corners of her eyes.

**He** He holds her tight until her ears are ringing from lack of air, then lets go and looks down at her, gasping, eyes wet with tears, lips swollen. He lets out a growl, yanks her head back into position and begins to fuck her in earnest, paying no heed to how she's struggling for air, trying her best not to choke and failing. Her fingers are clinging to his breeches, desperate but ineffective, her body twitching helplessly. He holds her down and, with a long, low groan, cums down her throat.

**She** His cum is hot and salty in her mouth and she swallows it even as she can feel him pulsating against her tongue. Eventually he pulls out and stands there, panting. She is limp beneath him, face streaked with tears and saliva, strands of hair slipped out from under her cap, as reality slowly begins to seep back in. Her eyes are still closed, her pulse hammering in her ears. She can feel him run his hand along her face. "Exquisite," he murmurs, more to himself than to her.

She opens her eyes and sits up, brushes her hair from her face, begins to lace her stays back up.

"What are you doing?"

"Sir?"

"Did I allow you to get dressed?"

Hasn't he had enough?

"No, Sir." She lowers her hands.

"Take off your jacket and petticoats. And then bring me a glass of whisky. And while you're at it, stoke the fire."

She does the last part first, keen to get it over with before removing her apron, then lays out apron, jacket and petticoats on the desk, and pours him a dram in her underclothes.

She hands it to him, then takes a step back and tries to suppress the shiver that is about to overtake her, whether from the coldness of the room or of his demeanour, she isn't sure.

**He** He's sprawled out in the armchair, feet stretched out towards the fire, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and the girl by his side. He makes a gesture. "Come here."

It's a shame that unlacing stays is so tedious, and he'd simply cut through them, but he suspects she would raise more of a fuss about that than it's worth. Instead, he pulls her shift down as far as it'll go, revealing her shoulders and most of her breasts.

Then he motions for her to undo his cravat and collar, and finally points down at the floor beside his outstretched legs.

"Kneel."

 **She** At least there's a rug under her knees, rather than the bare hardwood. Still shaky, she leans against his leg, cautious at first, and when this is greeted with a pleased hum from him, she lets herself relax a little more.

It is clear that he has no intention to offer her comfort after his cruelties, but at least this way there is warmth, and she can steady herself against the tremors that are still lurking in her limbs.

She thinks of what a sight they must make for, him draped across the chair, shirt and breeches open both, whisky in one hand and carelessly petting his half-naked wench with the other, the very image of elegant dissipation. Still chilly, she huddles a little closer to him, torn between relief and regret that he has left her hair stowed away under the cap, a last sanctum left unviolated, but it'd keep her warm now, at least.

**He** He lets his fingers trail across her bare shoulders and, between sips, idly contemplates the possibilities that are suddenly spreading out before him. He’s had his share of encounters and affairs, of course, but always one-offs, a handful of times at most. Going after his father’s maids had always seemed to him more trouble than it was worth, and none of them had struck him as particularly intriguing anyway. This one, though… He keeps coming back to the way she’d melted in his hands, the power to mould her however he wants to. It is a pleasantly heady feeling, and one he hungers to explore further. Having a girl so close at hand may have its advantages after all…

*

**She** The fire burns down, the whisky is drained, and with a last graze of teeth against her neck, she gets sent off, through cold dark hallways, to bed. Hopefully all the bruises will be covered by my kerchief tomorrow, is her last thought before she falls asleep.


End file.
